


For He To-day Who Sheds His Blood With Me

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherhood, Depression, Dracula-style vampires, Drug Use, Gen, Laudanum, Opium, Vampires, characters die but only to become vampires, late Regency setting, no romance whatsoever, only rated T for discussion of death, so not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BBC Sherlock's characters (well, just Sherlock and Mycroft, really) in a Regency setting with laudanum and Bram Stoker's-Dracula-style vampires. </p><p>"Sherlock doesn’t even remember dying—another endless frustration. How many people can report how it feels to be at the moment of death? But he knows that Mycroft came to him, too late, called by an urgent messenger at Whitehall. Perhaps Mycroft knelt at Sherlock’s bedside (sofa-side) and wept. Sherlock would have liked to see it, but he wasn’t there."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For He To-day Who Sheds His Blood With Me

In the haze of opium and long nights, Sherlock doesn’t notice how it begins. That is the thing that tortures him most later on: Mycroft was right. His mind, once so bright and perceptive, has been utterly dulled by the seduction of the drug. And what he fails to observe, while unconscious on his sofa or floating over London’s rooftops on that perfect rush, is his destruction. A dropper: one drop, two, twenty, fifty, one thousand, three thousand drops a day of his favorite tincture, and the days slip by. One, two, twenty, fifty . . .

Sherlock is also a victim of unfortunate circumstance: at just the wrong moment, Mycroft becomes so entirely occupied with managing some scandal involving the Prince Regent’s debts that he does not visit Sherlock for almost a month. By the time he does, Sherlock is dying. Vaguely, Sherlock apprehends that something is very wrong when Mycroft stops scolding him and starts talking to him in a soft voice, asking when he began to feel ill.

But Sherlock is wearing long shirt-sleeves, and the physician who rushes to Sherlock’s shoddy lodgings doesn’t look closely at the inner part of Sherlock’s elbow. Why would he, when it’s so obvious that Sherlock’s affliction is the food he doesn’t eat, the laudanum he drinks in strengths that would kill a man new to it? So nobody sees the strange little pair of puncture marks that are not on Sherlock's neck but in the crook of his elbow, worn slightly ragged, as though the injury has occurred in the same place again and again. And no amount of Mycroft’s money or influence can give that doctor, or the next one or the one after that, the ability to slow Sherlock’s decline.

Of course, Sherlock refuses to bow to sentimentality. There are no touching brotherly understandings between him and Mycroft, even when Mycroft loses his temper and throws an ewer across the room, shouting that Sherlock is dying. The idea of Sherlock dying or not dying seems very distant, anyway. Everything is very distant, and Sherlock has no intention of giving up the opium. He’s seen the agonies that poor wretches who are deprived of it suffer. If he is dying, why should he die with so much more pain than necessary? He would rather just . . . drift. Until Mycroft is gone and has stopped bothering him, at least.

Sherlock doesn’t even remember dying—another endless frustration. How many people can report how it feels to be at the moment of death? But he knows that Mycroft came to him, too late, called by an urgent messenger at Whitehall. Perhaps Mycroft knelt at Sherlock’s bedside (sofa-side) and wept. Sherlock would have liked to see it, but he wasn’t there.

No, it’s not until that night at the undertaker’s that _Sherlock_ returns to Sherlock’s body—and he wakes up utterly, cuttingly sober. Alert as a predator, more clear-minded than he’s ever felt. Alone in the dark, laid out in his best clothes among cloying lilies. Ready for his wake, it seems.

In his new, clear-minded state, Sherlock understands immediately that he is dead, and his tests confirm it. His hand touches his other hand hesitantly, as though it was a stranger’s, and there is no heartbeat in its wrist. Although he can’t judge his own body temperature, he suspects that his body no longer has the warmth of life. His reflection in a silver vase of flowers, as he examines it, shows a familiar face slightly altered—there’s hollowness around the eyes that he recognizes. Dead. He’s seen the features of the dead before, at St. Bart’s before he was encouraged to leave the school due to inappropriate behavior. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible—he’s a man of science—but he knows it to be true. He’s dead: the yearning for opium is gone.

This is nonsense. It’s myth and, even worse, it’s impossible, as any student of science would know. But, clearly, it’s also true. Sherlock has died. Now he is still dead, but all the same he is . . . animated, in some sense. His mind feels as alive as it did before--as alive as it was before the opium, even.

And, therefore, it’s also clear that he must disappear. He must be rational: no-one will welcome a dead man with no pulse who walks and talks. Of course, when he does disappear, Mycroft will inevitably turn London upside-down looking for the criminals who stole his baby brother’s corpse, but even Mycroft won’t be able to solve this mystery. Sherlock enjoys a little vindictive pleasure at that realization.

So Sherlock gets up, uses the silver vase as a blunt instrument to break the door lock, and slips out into London’s rainy night dressed in his best suit.

But where can he go to be safe? There is nowhere, nowhere safe for him now. He returns to only one answer, an answer that displeases him. He knows the cellars and patterns of his family home well. Mycroft is rarely there, and no-one else there will be observant enough to realize that he is hiding there.

But then what? _Then_ what? Will he spend his life hiding in a cellar? Striding through the rain, Sherlock snarls, sending the horse drawing a hansom cab next to him rearing up in terror. Enough. He will find his place of safety and then make other plans.

Of course, events unfold as Sherlock foresees. Mycroft exhausts himself in attempting to discover the body thieves who took his little brother, and Sherlock hides in his family home, even reclining on his childhood bed during the night when the servants are asleep. He runs his fingers along his childhood bookshelves, picks out old familiar titles to read with new eyes, even if he becomes bored with them only a few pages in. He plots the theft of, perhaps, some of Mother’s old jewels; he will need money if he is to take new lodgings in London, which he must do in order to resume life of some kind. He experiments with fighting the lethargy that comes over him during the day. While in life he was more often awake during the nighttime than the daytime, he will need to do business during the day sometimes if he is to maintain a real life now.

There is also the matter of sustenance, which is taken care of via horses and sheep and other areas of non-interest. Sherlock has never been a slave to his appetite—well, his literal appetite, at least—and he has no intention of beginning now. How repulsive.

But his plots are interrupted by the ever ill-timed appearance of Mycroft at the house. In fact, Mycroft surprises Sherlock by going into Sherlock’s old childhood bedroom, forcing his little brother to hide in the wardrobe like a surprised lover.

Abruptly, Mycroft sits on the bed, and for all that he is one rotten inch taller than Sherlock he looks small. His invisible mantle of influence is shed, for once, and he is just a man like any other on the street. After all, Mycroft no longer has those titles that made up so much of him: the big brother, the elder son. Who is he now?

Eventually Mycroft leaves. Sherlock exits the wardrobe and spends the first part of the night pacing back and forth by the bedside. Well, Mycroft has never been particularly superstitious. Mycroft is a man of reason. Mycroft can certainly ease Sherlock’s progress back into the world of the living. There is no reason not to.

It is two a.m. when Sherlock pushes the door to Mycroft’s bedroom open, and for a moment a long-forgotten memory arises: a smaller Sherlock going to his older brother in the night because he knew that their father was very ill, but nobody was talking about it. Sherlock had been afraid, and Mycroft had seemed so wise then. How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties.

In his bed, the present Mycroft starts and then immediately moves to light his bedside candle. The flicking light illuminates Sherlock, who pushes the door closed behind his back.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft whispers.

“You were looking for culprits who didn’t exist,” says Sherlock. “There were no body thieves.”

“Obviously,” says Mycroft, putting the candle down to take Sherlock’s hand between his own, which feel surprisingly warm. Sherlock was right about his own body temperature, then.

“Tell me,” says Mycroft.

The long night of talking on Sherlock’s part ends with lodgings being taken in a different area of London than the one in which he previously resided. A housekeeper is hired; she is a sensible woman who has no superstitions, can follow instructions exactly and understands that the man who lives in her rooms suffers from a rare illness and must not be disturbed when indisposed, and so on and so forth.  Her name is Mrs. Hudson.

A flock of sheep is also appended to the manor, for Sherlock’s convenience.

And so the unpleasant, cellar-dwelling portion of Sherlock’s life seems to have drawn to a close. He may live in London again, although he must be careful not to be seen by anyone who might know that he is dead. This is no great hardship; when Sherlock must go out, he goes in darkness to the places where Mycroft’s lofty cohort would never venture.

But just as often, he remains inside. Turns to his violin. Violin, violin, violin, violin, sometimes, for days and days. Sadly, opium now holds no appeal; it must have something to do with his body being dead. It doesn’t work any more.

Sometimes Sherlock remains in repose on his new sofa while days and even weeks slip by. At other times, when the people Sherlock meets in his less reputable haunts come to him for help, there is at least a _point_ , if only briefly, to his continued life. There are questions, answers, even miscreants who are entertainingly surprised by the strength in Sherlock’s lanky frame. But even those spots of excitement are only small islands in the lagoon of his heavy moods. There is not enough. There never has been. It hardly seems worth it for him, of all people, to have what might be immortality.

As Sherlock and Mycroft meet again and again over the years, Sherlock acutely perceives how time is taking its toll on Mycroft, and not on him. Mycroft’s waist becomes a little wider in the natural way that men’s waists do with age. His hairline recedes. One day Sherlock looks at Mycroft and realizes that if he saw him in the street as a stranger he might think Mycroft was someone’s father. A dull wage-earning man, steadily headed toward old age and death.

As he picks up the cup of tea that Mycroft has poured for him, Sherlock must make an effort to keep his hand steady. Mycroft is no longer just five years older than Sherlock. He is ten years older—now a significantly older brother, almost an oddity if there are no siblings between them.

Not long after this realization, Sherlock is shocked to the point of speechlessness when his copy of _The Times_ contains an announcement of the marriage of Mr. Mycroft Holmes and, and, some French woman Sherlock has never heard of. Sherlock would very much like to march down to Mycroft’s office and demand an explanation immediately, but given that that would likely involve his being recognized and then the inevitable questions as to how a dead man could be walking around London he settles for writing the word “Why?” on a piece of paper, putting it in an envelope addressed to Mycroft and asking Mrs. Hudson to put it in the post.

After a delay of several days, in order to be as irritating as possible, Mycroft finally arrives at Sherlock’s lodgings. Sherlock affects great calm and remains reclining on his sofa. “Well?” he says, disinterestedly.

“Good evening to you too, dear brother,” says Mycroft. “Have you progressed at all with the case of the smuggling ring?”

Sherlock sits up. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you love this woman. Not only have you never entertained a notion of romance in your life, but you consider your work in the government to be far more important than any potential romantic affair. Who is she?”

“My _wife_ and I understand one another very well,” says Mycroft, with unnecessary emphasis on the word. “Moreover, she possesses a number of very young nephews, who will serve as my son when it becomes necessary for my acquaintances to meet him in his youth.”

Sherlock frowns. “Is this some preoccupation with carrying on the family name?”

“Yes, “ Mycroft says crisply. “In fact, I intend to carry on the family name myself. Personally.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to parse Mycroft’s meaning, but once he does, he scoffs. “Are you so certain that I’ll acquiesce?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock stares Mycroft down. “Well, then, roll up your sleeve.”

“Always in such a hurry, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, looking at the wallpaper.

“If you’re so eager to become a member of the damned, it hardly matters when we begin. Now is as convenient as any time, isn’t it?”

Mycroft sighs. “Very well.” And he rolls up his left sleeve. “Not too near the cuff, please.”

Sherlock has put together enough of his vague memories—memories he thought were opium-dreams—to make a guess at what he should do. Of course, he makes a pretense of complete confidence, and does it. It is very satisfying afterward to see Mycroft, slightly dazed from blood loss, force himself to stand up straight and bid Sherlock good evening.

Apparently, Mycroft also knows a reputable doctor who is willing to report that Mycroft has also been afflicted with a rare disease (those useful rare diseases) and requires several months of bed-rest before resuming his duties. At that point, Mycroft takes up residence in Sherlock’s second bedroom, reading every newspaper in London and sending endless missives to his cronies. Mrs. Hudson tends to him while Sherlock plays the violin loudly and pretends he’s not there.

Sherlock is not worried at all when Mycroft finally dies. He knows that it is only temporary, after all, and they had known to send Mrs. Hudson away for a few days beforehand. He is not worried in the slightest about his brother in the bedroom. Nor is he relieved on the night a few days later when Mycroft finally arises and walks out into the moonlit sitting-room.

“Well, that’s done,” says Mycroft. He looks much the same. If anything, he does seem to have recently undergone a severe illness.

“You had better go and return to your Empire,” Sherlock says, paging through his notes on a recent interesting lecture on the topic of making gas lighting universally accessible. “Think of all the wars you’ve missed orchestrating, all the pies without your fingers in them.”

Mycroft does go back to his position in the government.

Things go on.

In due time, as the natural order of things dictates, Mycroft Holmes dies; the _Times_ publishes a small but laudatory obituary. A number of years later, his son, named Mycroft Holmes, II, finishes his higher education in France and is welcomed into the ranks of British government as the very model of his father. Indeed, those who knew the elder Holmes are gratified by the resemblance between the two; they could be the same man.

It seems the son also has a younger brother, named for his long-gone uncle: Sherlock.

And the pattern repeats.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is misappropriated from Shakespeare's Henry V: "For he to-day who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother."
> 
> I realize that this story somehow makes Mycroft out in a positive light? He's my favorite character but he's definitely not a nice person. Definitely not my intention to Draco In Leather Pants him; it's just that this story doesn't happen to involve all the terrible things he does. Even bad people can love their brothers.
> 
> Re: vampirism: in Bram Stoker's Dracula, you get turned into a vampire by being bitten repeatedly over a period of time (Lucy Westenra had a bite mark described like Sherlock's). This is what happens in this story. Also, hypodermic needles weren't yet invented in this time period (Regency, an earlier setting than ACD's). So this Sherlock drinks laudanum, a tincture of opium, rather than injecting.


End file.
